It's cobbling back together faster as the seconds keep ticking, and her eyes go back to the darkness the wolves, and the hellhound came from, but it's silent. Not she can trust that, but it, or they, have decided not to put round three up on deck immediately.

"Only met one of each of those." Jo's gaze flicked to the spot Geralt had been hovering in the air. "And two of these now." There's a frown at the air. That empty, empty air and it guts anything that wants to take a tendril of victory in it being dead. Because she can't fucking even see it to take that much back to the hollow shakey things she's starting to push down inside her ribs. "Or one twice."

Fuck. Jo doesn't even want to know what the math on that answer is.

(She wonders, sideways, at the empty spot, if it can burn.)